White Light
by Mulligrubs
Summary: A Reid-centric drama. The team embarks for a small California town, where a killer is stalking and killing victims bearing an uncanny resemblance to one of the team, and ...hey look, updates!
1. Chapter 1

IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER

** Despite my best efforts, I still don't own Criminal Minds. They refuse to respond to any of my letters asking to buy it, or take any of the story ideas I send. **

* * *

The dead man's eyes were the color of cloudy mud, and they stared into the bright blue California sky, unseeing. The corpse lay on the dusty ground next to the abandoned gas station, Twenty miles outside the college town of Pico Aldo. Though he must have been quite handsome in life, with dark, curling hair and slim, boyish limbs, the corpse's face retained an expression which was at once ugly and pitiful to look at. It was as if the violence of his early departure from this world still troubled him, though he should have been beyond such concerns. Those blind eyes pleaded with Police Chief Stephen Wayne.

_Find who did this to me…Find my killer…_

The violence of the dead man's final hours was written in the cuts and bruises standing in stark contrast against his white skin, mutilating and desecrating it. John Downey, Pico Aldo's only coroner, examined the marks with steady, nitrile-gloved hands and a scowl, turning the body to expose the dark lines around the body's neck and wrists that Wayne had been dreading. The scowl was not a reflection on the state of the body, though Wayne certainly felt like scowling, but rather a stable fixture on Downey's face, as familiar and characteristic as the persistent bad-haircut and grey eyes.

Wayne looked around. An ambulance was parked nearby, and a tall, dark skinned paramedic was handing his shorter, blond partner a towel to wipe the vomit off his face, patting him on the back. New kid, though Wayne.

Wayne turned his attention back to look at his own newest officer, Samantha Vasquez. She was crouched next to the Downey, asking questions, and writing down the answers that Downey gave in a low voice that Wayne couldn't hear over the wind and the caterwauling crows and carrion birds. Though she showed no obvious outward signs of uneasiness, Wayne thought otherwise, noticing how tightly she gripped the pen, knuckles white.

The sheriff remembered his own first homicide case, where he had promptly lost his lunch just like the newbie paramedic. It was hard to believe he had ever been that green. Vasquez was a fine cop. Given time, she might even be a good cop, but she was so new…He pushed his thoughts aside and approached the two so he could join the conversation.

"How's it looking?" Wayne asked, but he already knew the answer to the unspoken question- whether they had a serial killer on their hands- in his gut. He had known, no _felt_, the answer as soon as he had seen the body, and it had been about as subtle as a bucket of ice water to the face.

"He's dead, Steve." Downey glanced up, and Wayne gave him a long look. Downey remained straight-faced, as if he hadn't just made a bad Star Trek reference at a crime scene.

"About nine to twelve hours, I'd say. It's harder to pinpoint time of death with high ambient temperatures like this. Doesn't look like his injuries occurred here, because there would be a great deal of blood loss, and we haven't found any. I can't get you a definitive cause of death until autopsy, but my money's on strangulation."

Downey gestured to the ugly bruise at the neck. Wayne felt a bead of sweat run down his own neck and under his collar, felt his own pulse throb. He swallowed, but his throat remained dry.

"So he was dumped…any ID?"

"Nah, no clothes at all. Just a pair of boxers."

"We'll get a photo circulating or on the news," Vazquez said. "He looks about college age… we should send someone down to the college."

Wayne nodded.

"Overall, would you say that these injuries are consistent with the others?" He asked.

"They're almost identical, poor bastard," Vasquez said, wiping her short, choppy hair out of her eyes and looking up at Wayne. "Do you think it's the same guy…? "

"Vasquez, I know you're new to this, but we like to keep the mindless questions to a minimum here," He said. She looked away. Downey refused to make eye-contact, and Wayne saw a brief smile flicker across the coroner's face before he gave Vasquez a companionable pat on one blue-clad shoulder. When he thought Wayne wasn't looking, of course.

"Sir," She finally said. Wayne wished she would push back just a little, stand up for herself, do _something_ in response to his nagging. He knew she could. He supposed she was still too unsure of herself, unsure of her new surroundings. Fine with him, he'd just keep at it until she did.

"We know that we have one body in the ground and another in the morgue with the same pattern of injuries. They were dumped in a similar manner as this 'poor bastard' at month-long intervals," Wayne said. "Either of them could have been this guy's brother."

"Precluding the possibility that we have _two_ knife-wielding psychos picking off kids at the same time, I'd say yeah. Odds are pretty good that this is the work of our guy. Let's get the body back to the morgue so Downey can do his autopsy. Vasquez, we stay here until we get another unit to secure the scene. Then I'm sending you to the college to see if you can't learn something."

As they helped get the body into a bag, Wayne only half-heard Downey's invitation for Wayne and his wife, Gina, to stop by for dinner that Friday. Not entirely sure what he was agreeing to—Wayne thought he heard the word lasagna, but it could have been haggis and bull testicles for all he knew—he said yes. He and Gina would stop by around eight.

He couldn't get those empty eyes out of his head. There was just no way Pico Aldo had the resources to deal with a serial killer.

Wayne would have to call in for some major back-up.

The tension was a physical presence, heavy and dense. Reid could almost imagine it as a solid thing, squeezed between the hands of the clock, preventing their progress to that anticipated hour. He clenched his hands. Unclenched them. Swung his feet. Almost there—

A large hand clamped down on his shoulder. Reid jumped, and spun around in his chair; he had thought he was alone.

"Whoa there pretty boy, don't hurt yourself."

"Morgan," Reid said, rolling his eyes at the other agent. "I thought you and Garcia were at that sexual harassment seminar?"

Morgan grinned.

"Right…," Reid said, looking back at the clock. "40-70% of women and 10-20% of men are _actually_ sexually harassed in the workplace, and Farson thinks _you two_ are being inappropriate."

"Good thing he hasn't heard some of the things Garcia says to you. The man would die of a massive coronary," Morgan looked thoughtful. "Or some of the things _I_ say, come to think of it. So where are you rushing off to?"

"Nowhere. Sorry I can't stay and talk. I actually have to head out--"

Reid scooted his chair back and stood, but Morgan maneuvered to block his escape.

"Morgan, move."

Despite their friendship, Morgan's behavior still annoyed Reid, at times too similar to the jocks in high school that had made his life hell. Yet he stood there smiling, and, as always, was obviously oblivious of the effect his good-natured teasing had. Still, the man meant well…

"Fine, Morgan. What are you smiling about?"

"I just never thought I'd see the day Spencer Reid tries to leave the office early, it's only 4:53."

"Since when are you so concerned with leaving early?" Reid asked, glancing around for an escape route. Nothing obvious presented itself. "You do it often enough."

"Oh now, a deflection. What don't you want me to know?" Morgan said, stepping left to block Reid's sudden dodge. "You got a hot date or something and don't want me to steal her away?"

"Actually, yes. Her name is Jessica. "Reid said, and then jokingly added."I'm not worried, since she likes 'smart guys' and thinks my magic tricks are funny, so for once I don't think you've got a chance. Now can you move?"

"That's my boy," Morgan clapped Reid on the shoulder again. "Well in that case, I think I can let you pass."

"Very considerate of you," Reid said sarcastically as he shouldered his bag and headed for the door. "See you tomorrow."

"Later, pretty boy."

As he walked to the door, Reid thanked his lucky stars the team hadn't gotten a case that needed him to stay late, or worse, fly to who knows where at the drop of a hat. Reid understood the importance of being on call at all times, and the need to get to location quickly, but sometimes he wondered how the Bureau found it in the budget. Where did they find money to keep a private jet at their beck and call to send the team all over the country once a week?

Beck and call was such an interesting phrase, he thought as he reached for the handle. With roots in the old—

His thoughts were interrupted by four dreaded words.

"We've got a case!"

Reid turned and saw Hotchner enter the office, followed by JJ, holding case files in her hands.

"Wheels up in an hour."

Great, thought Reid. He pulled out his cellphone and dailed Jessica, hoping they'd be able to reschedule.


	2. Chapter 2

**Criminal Minds intro song goes HERE (which is something else I don't own). **

**If you don't have it prerecorded on a handy listening device, feel free to hum along, in your head or out loud, as preffered.**

Chapter 2

Reid ordered two medium coffees for JJ and himself, the resolute coffee drinkers it seemed-everyone else turned down his offer- at the coffee stop closest to the airport. He glanced at his watch; half an hour to get to the plane. The teenager behind the counter absently fiddled with his lip piercing, looking depressed and out of place with the classic Italian vibe that the shop was shooting for. His nametag read Jared, and he sounded annoyed as he told Reid his drinks would be ready in a couple of minutes.

"Thanks," Reid said, collecting the change from his twenty. As he dug his wallet out, his phone rang, making him wish that he had more than two hands, but wondering, as always, where he would put the third. He ended up putting most of the change in the tip-jar on the counter instead of in his wallet, at which Jared's face brightened considerably. Reid didn't mind, remembering some of his more disagreeable jobs as he answered the phone.

"Hello, Reid speaking," He said.

"_How is my geeky genius this fine evening? I didn't get a chance to say goodbye_," Garcia's voice managed to convey her smile even through the phone speaker.

"I know. Sorry Garcia, I was kind of in a hurry--" Reid said as he accepted the two coffees from Jared, who actually managed a smile.

"_To meet up with someone named, I don't know, Jessica?"_

"How did you know that?" Reid asked, sputtering on the first sip of his coffee (black, equal parts sugar and beverage).

"_Oh Vanilla Cupcake, you _do_ know who you're talking to, right? But I didn't call just to stun you with my all-knowing powers."_

"You've already done that, by my estimate, about 1,245 times, Garcia. What did you call for, then?" Reid asked as he shouldered open the exit door. "How was the seminar? Did you call to apologize and tell me you've renounced your wicked ways and need my help?"

"_Hah, no. You're the one who needs help,"_ Garcia laughed. "_I wanted to show you something…here; I'm sending it to your phone."_

The image finished downloading just as he settled into his car, pulling the seatbelt across his chest. He studied the image. It showed a young man, maybe a few years younger than Reid. With his dark hair and eyes, skinny build, and pale skin, he could have passed for Reid's brother. He was also dead. Garcia took Reid's long silence as an invitation to continue.

"_This is the third victim in the case you guys are working on. Now tell me you're not getting a freaky, black cat, Friday the thirteenth, lost-twin sort of vibe here," _Garcia said. She sounded concerned.

"Garcia, that's absurd," Reid said, re-examining the picture. She was right, of course, and that was what was causing her concern. Reid thought Garcia worried about the team too much, and hated seeing his co-worker, and friend, distraught over a case. If he could convince her she was seeing things, maybe she wouldn't worry so much.

"At best it's a…a lost second cousin sort of vibe. Just a coincidence. I'd love to talk, but I've got to drive to the airport."

"_Hmm…Maybe first cousin." _Garcia sounded unconvinced. _"Just be careful on this one, okay?"_

"Promise," Reid said, starting his car. "I'm sure we'll be calling you soon enough."

"_Thanks Reid," _she said before hanging up.

The drive to the airport was uneventful, though the troubling feeling he had when he first saw the third victim—an unsettling twist in his stomach--persisted. Reid boarded the plane, and handed JJ her coffee, accepting her thanks and a copy of the case file before taking a seat.

The team each had their favorite method of attacking a case file, Reid noticed. The usual playful banter that took place between team-members was gone, replaced by the single-mindedness and determination typical of when they were on a case. Everyone but Reid was soon riveted by the file, trying to gather some insight into the dark criminal mind they had been tasked with cracking. The responsibility settled on their shoulders, suppressing idle repartee and driving everyone in the cabin to fixed concentration.

Rossi spread his file out on a pull out table beside him. And on the neighboring seats. And the floor. He likes to surround himself with the case, muttering comments to himself as he worked through it. Next to him, Hotch examined the file with meticulous scrutiny, oblivious to everything else. He neatly replaced each sheet and photo after quickly scanning each, getting a big-picture idea of the case before diving into the details.

Though Morgan sat behind him, Reid imagined that, like Rossi, he had spread the case around him, already organizing and forming a rough picture of the UNSUB in his head.

Across the aisle, J.J carefully leafed through the folder containing her file, taking neat notes on a spiral pad. Like Hotch, J.J was extremely detail-oriented, and was probably already preparing a media statement in her head to give the team the best advantage. Emily bit her pen absent-mindedly, absorbed in some detail of the case. She glanced up at Reid, a strange expression on her face, and Reid looked away. Had she, like Garcia, seen the resemblance? No, he decided. It was more likely that she had just noticed him staring.

Reid turned his gaze to the unopened file before him, thinking that perhaps he should cut back on the coffee, as his stomach twisted. He opened the file, and read the basic case details.

Pico Aldo was a medium sized, California college town, with a population of about 42,000 during the school year. It was about a half an hour's drive from any major highway, and was bordered by large areas of desert: essentially in the middle of nowhere. Reid noted that it was a city large enough to support, and hide, a serial killer, but small enough to need the BAU's assistance.

Reid flicked aside the cover sheet, turning to the section concerning the victims. The physical resemblance intrigued him, unwillingly drawing his eyes to the gruesome crime-scene photos. Since it seemed that their haunting images would stay in the back of his mind regardless of where he decided to begin, he opted to start with victimology; what the three dead men had in common, where they worked, what they did for fun, relationships. Reid knew from experience that finding the common links between each man, even if it meant tearing their lives apart or uncovering carefully guarded secrets, would allow him to start building up this monster in his mind. He pulled out his laptop.

The first victim had been discovered about three months ago…

Their arrival at the Pico Aldo Police Station was met with guarded appreciation by a portly, balding man who introduced himself as Sheriff Steve Wayne.

Reid saw relief in many faces, which supported his earlier conclusion that Pico Aldo lacked the resources to deal with a case of this magnitude. He also saw a measure of cautious wariness in some, which was hardly surprising. They were strangers here, and local law enforcement agencies were usually somewhat skittish around them. Often there was the fear that the B.A.U. would take all of the credit but none of the blame on these cases. The team was typically only marginally successful in alleviating that fear, and it hung around for most of their cases, unspoken but evident.

Reid looked at Hotch and saw that he was scoping the place out with the same scrutiny with which he had picked apart the case-file. Hotch would know how to handle the wariness, toeing the right lines and saying just the right words to soothe damaged egos and spur people into action.

The team was led to a non-descript conference room which looked like it hadn't been repainted wince the 70's. It held several officers; Reid assumed that they had been assigned to the case, and a dirty whiteboard which doubled as a projector screen. One wall was taken up by a large corkboard on which the case was laid out, with so many holes that it resembled Swiss cheese. It looked as though it had been hastily cleared to make room for the new investigation; scraps of paper remained stapled to it, spread out like confetti between reports and photographs of the three victims.

Introductions were quick and to the point. JJ was soon off to contact local media and prepare a statement, while Prentiss and Morgan were sent down to the morgue to examine the latest victim in person, and then to scope out the three dump sites. Soon, Reid found himself presenting the victimology chart he had typed up on the plane.

"I've made a chart containing the case information in order to search for possible links between the victims," Reid said, connecting his laptop to the projector so everyone could see.

---------------------**Ronald McCain** ---------------**David Peterson**------------ **Tony Sterling** ----------

**Victim number:----------**1--------------------------------- 2-------------------------3---------------------

**Date of discovery**: --June. 7 ---------------------------July. 3 -------------------Aug. 17 ----------------

**Disappearance: --**Afternoon (June. 1)-----------Afternoon ( July. 1)----------- Evening (Aug 15)-----

**Probable Time**

**of Death:---**Late evening (June 2) ---------Late evening (July. 2)-------------Late evening (Aug 16)-

**City resident?**----------Yes --------------------------yes-------------------------------Student -------------

**Sex:-------------------------**M----------------------------- M----------------------------------- M-----------

**Ethic Group**:------- white/American -------------white /American ----------------------white /American

**Age: ----------------------------**29--------------------------- 25--------------------------------- 23 ------

**Sun Sign**: --------------Capricorn ----------------------Virgo--------------------------- Scorpio -----------

**Height:**-------------------6'1" -----------------------------5'11"---------------------- 6' 0"-----------------

**Weight**: -----------------159lb -----------------------------147 lb------------------------- 153lb------------

**Hair length**: -----------short -------------------------------short ---------------------------short-----------

**Hair Color**:-------------------- brown-------------------dark-brown ------------------brown -----

**Hair Type: ----------------**straight --------------------wavy-------------------------straight --

**Eye color**: ------------black------------------------------- blue------------------------ brown --------------

**Tattoos:--------------**none---------------------------------none----------------------------- none ---------

**Occupation: --** Cable Inspector -------------------Illustrator ---------------------Student (psychology)--

**Employer:**-------- Cable inc.------------------ -unemployed ---------------------- Pico Aldo College -----

**Residence**: ---------apartment ------------------------apartment-------------------- town-house---------

**Relationships**:---------- single --------------------girlfriend------------------------------ divorced--------

**Personal items**

**Missing :**---------------cell-phone, keys -----------cell-phone, keys-------------------- cell-phone, keys

-------------------------------watch -----------------------ring -------------------------------watch----------

**Items missing**

**From home: ----------------**video camera------------------ none-------------------------------- none ---

**Criminal record**:---------------- none ---------------------none---------------------------------- none----

**Recovery site:----------**Side of Highway**-----------------**Public Park--------------------gas station

**Connection to**

**Scene of crime?**----------------?------------------------------?------------------------------?--------------

**Connection to**

**Recovery site?**------------------?----------------------------?---------------------------------?-------------

**Site of first**

**Contact**-------------------------?------------------------------?---------------------------------?-------------

**Body posed**? ------------------no -----------------------------no --------------------------------no---------

**Body washed**? ----------------yes -----------------------------yes------------------------------- yes------

**Cause of death? -------**strangulation ---------------------strangulation -------------------strangulation

**Ligature?**--------------Yes (wrists, ankles) ------------------Yes (w, a) ---------------------Yes (w, a) --

**Torture?**-----------multiple lacerations--------- multiple lacerations--------------- multiple lacerations

One of the officers, a young woman with choppy, bleach-blond hair raised her hand.

"Yes, Officer…?" Rossi said.

"Vasquez," She replied. "Why are we concentrating so much on the people he's already killed? Shouldn't we be putting our efforts into catching this bastard before he kills again?"

"Vazquez--" Wayne started, but was cut off by Hotch.

"No, it's a valid question," Hotchner said. "Reid?"

"We look for similarities between the victims in order to find what made the killer choose these people," Reid explained. "Performing this sort of analysis will very probably tell us key information about our killer, like how he gets close to his victims, or where he first contacts them. It will give us some insight into how he thinks, which will ultimately lead to his capture."

"So you're saying a profile will catch this guy?" Vasquez asked, looking incredulous.

"No," Hotch said. "Police catch killers, not the profile. The profile is only a tool."

"How soon will we have a profile?" Wayne asked. "I want to be able to tell my people what they should be looking for."

"We'll get a preliminary out by tomorrow at the latest," Hotch said. "Judging by this guy's timetable, we have about two weeks before he takes another victim, and a day after that until he kills, so everyone will need to move fast if we want to catch our UNSUB before he strikes again."

**Please, sir. Can I have some Review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Chapter 3**

**Thanks to all those that have reviewed! **

The next morning, the sun rose in a clear sky, promising another day of oppressive heat. When the students of Pico Aldo College left at the term's end, the town felt emptier, leaving the sun to illuminate carless streets. The newest edition of the town newspaper would be distributed within a few moments and, as per JJ's recommendations, had written an article on the case, leaving out select details, of course. Most of the residents felt Pico Aldo was like a ghost town during the summer months without the loud, boisterous presence of the students, and that feeling was magnified now that there was a malevolent spirit sauntering among them, stalking and killing.

But the streets were not entirely carless, even at this early hour.

A white van drove down Main Street. The man behind the wheel was tall, and his build was hard to determine under the layers of clothing that he wore, even in the summer heat. A worn baseball cap with the slogan '_Go Bearcats_'—the Pico Aldo College football team—was jammed on his head, covering short-cropped, curly grey hair. The pair of aviator sunglasses he wore was the only thing that did not seem out of place in the bright California sun, though the dark lenses blocked his eyes entirely.

On the seat next to him lay a small rectangular package, about the size of a paper-back book, and carefully wrapped in brown paper. Very carefully. It had no return address written, and no stamps. Scrawled in the middle in blocky red letters that would suit a child more than the grown man who wrote them, was an address.

The man intended to deliver this package personally.

Aaron Hotchner had just stepped out of the shower and was in the process of shaving when his phone rang.

"Dammit," he said under his breath; the blade had slipped as he reached for the phone sitting on the counter, nicking his neck. A few drops of blood fell, standing out in vivid red contrast against the white, porcelain sink. He fumbled the phone open and held it next to his head with his shoulder, getting a little shaving cream on the dail-pad.

"This is Agent Hotchner speaking."

"_Agent Hotchner, this is Wayne_," Hotch thought he detected a slight tremor in the sheriff's voice, which from his earlier impression of the man, seemed out of character.

"Good morning, Sheriff Wayne," Hotch said, sticking a tab of tissue paper on his shaving cut to stop the bleeding. "Like I said yesterday, we're coming in at eight to give a preliminary profile. Can this wait--?"

"_He sent a video,"_ Wayne said, stressing the last word. "_The sick fuck sent Tony Sterling's family a video."_

"Wayne," Hotch said to the obviously distressed man. "Do you have the tape? Did the family watch it?"

_"Yeah, we have it,_" Wayne paused. "_The kid's father opened it and…well, we have him pretty calm now. The tranquilizer helped."_

"We'll be right over."


	4. Chapter 4

Wayne drove back to the police station grim-faced. Gina and he had no children, and he couldn't imagine what Mr. Sterling was going through. The cause of his distress lay, sealed in an evidence bag, on the seat next to him. They would watch the tape after running it through evidence to collect anything their USUB might have left behind. Looking at the tape's wrappings, Wayne noticed that the material had the minor impurities and inconstant texture which he normally associated with Gina's hand-made paper.

He looked into his rear view mirror in an off-hand sort of way while stopped at a red light, and saw nothing but a white van behind him. Now that he thought of it, hadn't there been a white van that passed the Sterling's house? He had been inside dragging information out of a drugged and clearly out-of-it Mr. Sterling until, exasperated, he had glanced out the window and happened to see a van making its slow way down the street. He wouldn't have remembered it but for the huge, mickey mouse head-shaped spot of rust on the right side of the front bumper.

Wayne adjusted his mirror. The van's bumper was obscured by a sun-glare, so it was difficult to say if it was the same one. Its front license plate was bent in half, as if the driver had jumped a curb or two, making it difficult to read. Wayne briefly considered getting out to give the van-driver a warning, but the light turned green, and Wayne, with heavier matters in mind, decided to let it go.

As he turned right onto Main Street, the van took a left and his thoughts turned from Gina's paper to the woman herself. While she was generally understanding about his work, just as he was about the small paper business she ran out of their basement, Wayne knew his wife would kill him if he made a habit of early-morning forays in the name of duty.

That was why they had moved to Pico Aldo in the first place. Low crime rates meant fewer late nights or early mornings, fewer disappointed looks, fewer petty arguments. At least he still had a bargaining chip on the table; Friday night dinner with John Downey and his partner, Neal. He decided to tell her during his lunch break. Gina was particularly fond of Neal's lasagna, and evenings at the coroner's house were always amiable and enjoyable. That would square things away, he decided.

Nearing the station, he noticed the black SUVs out front, signifying the B.A.U team's arrival. The tall, dark-haired man with the stony-face, Hotchner, and the attractive brunette, Prentiss, were just opening the door to the station as he pulled up. The woman pointed to a cut on the man's neck, and asking, Wayne assumed, how he got it. _Shaving cut?_, Wayne wondered. The door closed behind them as Wayne steered his car into a parking space. He grabbed the evidence bag, taking a deep breath before opening the cruiser's door and walking into the station.

"Our UNSUB is most likely a white male in his mid to late thirties," Hotch said, addressing the conference room with a calm, relaxed demeanor that Reid envied. As gifted as Reid was, he often wished he was more comfortable addressing crowds, especially after listening to his colleagues' orations.

"The care and planning that went into washing his victims post-mortem, as well as the lack of evidence found at any of the dump-sites, both suggest an organized killer," Morgan said. "Our guy's intelligent, knows how to fit in, and will be difficult to catch. The month-long cool-down between each kill is unusually long for this type of pattern."

"Could the video have something to do with that?" Vasquez asked.

"We'll know more once we watch it," Reid said. Though giving the profile was a normal part of the case, he still felt his hands twisting at his sides as if they had minds of their own.

"We've dealt with UNSUBs who use cameras for all sorts of personal reasons...sometimes even web cameras to post their videos on the internet," He continued. "But if he's been videotaping his victims with some fantasy-related goal in mind, that could be extending the period. It allows him to recreate or prefect each kill, bringing it closer to his fantasy. He's also appears to be taking trophies; each time something small, like a watch or a ring. That could also be a factor in prolonging the time between kills. "

"This is a fantasy he's held for a long time," Prentiss said. "The multiple stab wounds to each victim indicate a deep seated rage, not at the victims, but someone they represent. This kind of rage doesn't just develop overnight. The person represented was close to the UNSUB, probably, but not necessarily, a close family member, who the UNSUB feels wronged by in some way. Killers like this don't stop until they're caught."

"Judging by the evolving M.O. we've seen from the first victim, it's probable that this is the first time he's acted on this fantasy," Morgan said, as Vasquez raised her hand again. "It's likely that our UNSUB had some sort of stressor before the first victim, which led to the acting out of these fantasies."

"Just ask the question Vasquez, this isn't school," Wayne said. To his chagrin, Vasquez actually blushed, but did ask her question.

"Why would the killer take such careful measures to get rid of evidence, but then do stupid, risky things like dump the bodies where we can find them, or send that tape to the third victim's family?" She asked. "I've heard of people wanting to get caught before, but..." She trailed off, thought unfinished.

"It's not so much that he wants to get caught," Reid said. "More that he wants us to know of his existence, probably to taunt or humiliate us. A surprising percent of serial killers actively communicate with either the media or the police in some form while they're active. Jack the ripper, the Zodiac killer, the Boston Rea--"

Reid stopped himself short of saying 'the reaper', pointedly ignoring Hotch's quizzical stare. Even Reid had noticed that the team had actively avoided talking about the case in front of Hotch for some time.

"It's actually quite common," Reid finished as JJ entered the room, holding a black cassette tape. They made eye contact and she shook her head. No luck with forensics, then.

"If we're at a good stopping point here, Evidence has done everything they could with the cassette," JJ said. "But all they figured out is that he wore gloves while handling it—the edges have traces a talcum powder on them. It, the cassette I mean, is a generic brand. They're still working on the glove-powder."

"Well, _that's_ helpful," Morgan said.

"Actually it might be," Reid said. "The number of stores even carrying blank V.H.S. cassettes like that has decreased exponentially over the past couple of years with the introduction D.V.R's , D.V.D.'s, and other digital media."

"So we'll hit the stores that do have this brand and check if any others received special orders," Wayne said, then turned to address one of his detectives. "Jones, I want you to take a few other officers and cover that. Radio in if you find anything."

The officer, Jones, and a few others left.

"They just started working on the paper wrapping, but they've already determined it's not commercial. Something hand-made, but professional," JJ said, looking down at her report. "I'll see if the Bureau has any consultants who might be able to help us out."

"No need," Wayne said. "My wife has a craft paper-making business. She's an expert. I'll just grab it from evidence when they're done and show it to her during lunch."

"Perfect," Hotch said. "Reid, you're on graphology. Head over to evidence and take a look at our UNSUB's handwriting. Report back what you find. Morgan and Rossi, Wayne has already talked to Sterling's family. While I'm sure a thorough account was taken, I want you interview them again, as well as the other victim's families. See if they've received anything similar. Wayne, Prentiss? We'll watch the tape, as well as anyone else you think could help, Wayne. Afterward, I'd like to have it analyzed by our technical consultant, if that's alright."

"He's probably better than anyone we've got here," Wayne said.

"The best there is," Hotch said.

"And she likes to remind us of the fact daily," Reid heard Rossi say as he exited the conference room.

Though Hotch had sent Rossi and Morgan off as well, Reid couldn't help but think he had been purposefully left out of the video analysis. Hadn't his accurate visual and analytical powers of examination been proven crucial to the closing of countless cases? Why was he being blocked out?

He shook his head. No matter, he had a job to do. He'd confront Hotch with the matter later. Perhaps he'd even lay out the plan he was beginning to form, if he could get it untangled in his own head first, that was.

In the meantime, he had an address to address.


	5. Chapter 5

Though it had been some time since he had been asked to use his graphology skills on a case, Reid was not worried. Hand-writing analysis ultimately came down to the details, and Reid was good at loosing himself in the details. The evidence department had cut out the address from the tape's wrappings for him, setting aside the rest for Wayne. With gloved hands, he carefully placed the scrap down, maneuvering the table-mounted magnifying lamp so he could look at the writing.

The letters were messy, done with red marker which had bled through the thick paper. He concluded immediately that the writer was probably male, based on the angularity and geometry of the characters. Red was a strong, eye-catching color choice, not as common as blue or black, with ties to violence, aggression, and a desire to be noticed. Reid wondered if the writer chose it because it reminded him of blood. The color was identical to the red sharpie he wrote on his desk calendar with at work. He waved one of the techs over.

"Do you know if they've identified the ink yet?" Reid asked the young, bespectacled man.

"No, they're still running the sample through chemical and color analysis," the tech said. "It'll take at least a day if we can't narrow it down."

"Could you tell them to do a comparison to the ink used in red sharpies? The color looks almost identical."

The tech gave him a strange look, one that Reid was quite familiar with, but complied, ordering the analysis from the wall-phone in the other room. The tech's nod, and the awed expression on his face, a few minutes later confirmed Reid's suspicion, and he turned back to the paper.

At first he thought the sloppiness was the work of an unorganized writer, which would contradict the profile that they just established. For a moment, this worried him; a natural leftie in the UNSUB's age range would have learned to write without smearing ink, especially one who was so detail-oriented. The brief panic passed when he saw typical rightie characteristics, and realized that the writer was a strongly right-handed person using his left hand. This would disguise his handwriting, which fit better with the careful and meticulous UNSUB they were searching for.

The heavy down strokes and thick upstrokes showed that the writer used a great deal of pressure when he wrote, which indicated a strong, dominating personality and possible violent tendencies. The large spaces between words could either indicate a thoughtful planner, or a writer unfamiliar with the mechanics of writing with his opposite hand, which was likely considering the smeared ink. Reid sighed. Since the writer was using his opposite hand, it would be difficult to learn more, since distinguishing between mistakes and natural personality indicators was impossible beyond that, even for him. At least his analysis supported the profile they constructed so far. Still, it added precious little information and was dissatisfying.

Unless talking to the families or analyzing the tape yielded more information than the stubborn letters before him, it was likely the team would be forced to wait until the UNSUB screwed up to get any closer to closure. Reid hoped that the others were having more luck. He felt more invested in this case than usual. Dealing with bodies was part of his job, and he had built up considerable emotional and mental defenses over the years, but some cases still got to him. He had a particularly difficult time with cases involving UNSUBs who engaged in child predation for example. Apparently cases where the victims bore a striking resemblance to him also fell into the 'difficult' category.

Since the video analysis would likely take a little longer, Reid pulled the latest victim's file toward him. He hadn't finished it yet, and opened the file to where he'd left off, scanning the page. Apparently Sterling had been training for a local triathlon.

An idea began to form in his head. The coroner's report had noted that the first two victims had been in excellent shape and health at the time of their deaths. Had they been runners, perhaps? Reid ran intermittently, since the FBI had physical performance standards, and he found it to be the least unpleasant form of exercise. It had, however, given him the knowledge that many runners disliked being outside during the hottest months of the year. He certainly preferred to go to the gym when the mercury climbed up the thermometer.

He felt a hopeful twinge of optimism as he pulled out his cell phone. A quick call to Morgan and a few questions later, he had his answer. He decided it was time to talk to Hotch.

"Absolutely not," Hotch said, brows drawn down and close together over his dark eyes. They were back in the conference room, and Wayne had left before Reid laid out his plan for Hotch and Prentiss.

"You've discovered our first link between the victims, which was excellent work, but there is no way I'm going to give you the go-ahead to put yourself in danger when there could be other options."

"Hotch, this is our only lead," Reid said. "If we don't do something, he's just going to take another victim. You know he isn't going to give us anything by screwing up, not this early."

"The answer's still no, Reid," Hotch said, heading out the door. He paused, door half-open. "We still have time."

Reid threw up his hands, exasperated as Hotch left the room. Why was he being so irrational?

"Could you talk to him?" Reid asked Prentiss. "He won't listen to me, but he might listen to you."

" Reid…"Prentiss said, obviously choosing her words carefully. "I agree with Hotch. It doesn't make sense for any one of us to put ourselves in danger simply because it's the first feasible action plan we have. We should consider other options"

"It's _the_ logical option. Otherwise we wait until he slips up or makes a mistake. How many kid's lives do you think that will take?" Reid asked rhetorically. "I've been here for years. I just wish people would start treating me like I can take care of myself. I think I've proven that time and time again."

Prentiss's hand rubbed her temple, and she cocked an eye-brow at Reid. The man looked like he would blow over in a windstorm. Still, he had become at least respectable with a gun, and more importantly, Prentiss herself would be backing him up at all times. The idea, she decided, deserved further consideration.

"What, no exact number?" She asked.

"On twenty-seven separate occasions during my time at the BAU, by my count," Reid said, only half-seriously. "Besides, There will be eyes on me at all times, so it's not like I'll be putting myself in danger."

" You don't think of using yourself for bait as 'putting yourself in danger'?" Prentiss, asked.

"Not anymore than I've been in before," Reid paused. "Significantly less so than some of our past cases. I've been putting myself in danger for the job since before you were on the team. I can handle it. Come on Prentiss, you know I'm right"

"…Alright," Prentiss said. "Alright. I'll talk to him."

Prentiss found Hotch exactly where she expected he would be. He held the coffee pot in one hand, pouring the last dregs into a dark green mug with a chipped handle, an intent look set on his face. She situated herself across from him, leaning back against the counter behind her.

"What's up, Hotch?" Prentiss asked.

"What do you mean?" Hotch apparently hadn't noticed her presence, and, uncharacteristically, looked almost startled for a second when she spoke. He placed the coffee-pot, not empty, back in its cradle, and his coffee mug beside it, then crossed his arms.

"Hotch, in the time I've worked beside you, I think I've gotten to know you pretty well, both as a colleague, and I hope, as a friend," She said. "You are one of the most dedicated men I've ever met. A man who puts the job… puts the _case_, before everything else, regardless of the consequences."

Hotch looked uncomfortable at this statement.

"But I just saw you reject one of the most reasonable courses of actions we have in this case, and I can't figure out why. This may be our best chance of catching this bastard before he kills another kid who won't even see it coming. So I'll ask again; what's up, Hotch?"

"I can't…" Hotch paused, obviously choosing his words with care. "I can't justify allowing a member of my team to walk straight in the hands of sadistic murderer. I can't put the case before everything… I know that now."

"This isn't Tobias Hankel, Hotch… and this isn't the Boston Reaper either."

Her words surprised Prentiss even as the slipped out of her mouth, but she forged on.

"It won't ever come to that. He'll be armed and ready. More importantly, he'll have the team backing him up at all times. _I'll_ be backing him up."

Hotch moved suddenly, an invasion of the space between them that was obviously confrontational. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of her. Though his actions were obviously intended to intimidate, she met his stare evenly and undaunted.

"Agent Prentiss, in the future it would benefit you to know that I dislike having my motives called into question. As Unit Chief, I am fully aware that this is not the reaper case," Hotch said. Though he spoke calmly, Prentiss saw his eyes tighten; evidence of the emotions that broiled behind them. "As the man who put George Foyet bellow ground, I consider myself, in fact, to be the definitive expert on the matter."

"Fair enough," Prentiss said, matching his tone perfectly. "But, you have to admit that Reid's plan is looking like our best option right now."

Hotch looked down at his coffee mug, evidently deep in thought. Prentiss did not break the silence, leaving him no option but to either rebut or reluctantly agree with her. And as much as he would have liked to do the former…

"Thank you for your invaluable perspective on the matter, Agent Prentiss," Hotch said, removing his hands from the counter and picking up his coffee. "You point was well, albeit bluntly, made, and will be taken into consideration. Now, let's get back to work."

"Well, since I obviously haven't change your mind, what--"

"Prentiss… I just agreed with you."

"Oh…"

"'Oh' indeed," Hotch said, grimacing at the taste of his drink and setting the mug back on the counter behind her. "Let's go inform Reid."


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry, to those of you who have been reading, for the hiatus. The end the chapter 5 is a little different, and here's a super-short chapter 6.**

**Still don't own Criminal Minds, which is just as well. The breaks between seasons are bad enough. If I were in charge, they'd be insufferable.**

* * *

Reid felt a bead of sweat run down his neck as his shirt clung damply to his chest. He ran out an even rhythm on the treadmill as the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The tempo of his footfalls was beginning to slow as his legs protested this vicious maltreatment. His lungs burned as well, but not unbearably.

This was his third trip to the gym this week, trying to set himself up as a frequent customer. Vazquez, also undercover, was pedaling furiously at a stationary bike somewhere to his right. He could hear the whir of the spinning wheel even over the rush of blood in his ears; even over the ambient noise of the work-out room. The young police officer did not seem too happy about being, in the way she saw things, assigned as glorified babysitter, and was now taking her frustrations out on the bike.

Reid slowed to a leisurely jog, then finally a walk. He grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat off his face and neck, and then made eye contact with the pretty brunette at the desk, who had been stealing glances at him since he walked in. He flashed her a smile, then surveyed the room. Other than the brunette, no one else seemed to be taking an abnormal amount of interest in him, or exhibiting out-of place behavior. Aside for Vasquez, anyway; she appeared to be trying to drill a hole through the floor with the force of her glare alone.

"How's your marathon training going?" The brunette asked as he approached the desk, flicking an errant lock of hair over her shoulder with a quick twist of her head.

Kelly, he remembered. Pretty, friendly, and above all, _talkative_, Kelly. He had chatted her up during his last visit, giving her, and everyone else he'd talked to, the marathon cover story.

"Pretty good," Reid said. "I wish I had more time, because believe me, I can go at it for _a lot_ longer than an hour."

" I don't know…you should show me sometime," she said, leaning over to rest her head on her hands, elbows on the desk.

"Of course, I'm nowhere near 26.2 miles," he said. "Not even close to 24.85, which was the pre-1908 distance, so you'll be seeing a lot of me. ..So…any suspicious activity on the desk-front?"

"No one but the tall, panting, sweaty dude, standing in front of it," She said. Reid suspected she was simply teasing, maybe even flirting with him. He was always a bit slow about social nuances, but never entirely clueless. A little late, he realized the possible sexual connotations of his earlier remark. A lot longer, indeed…

"Besides, I no longer represent the sole protector of the gym…" Kelly continued with a laugh, unheard by Reid.

He was still mulling over the use of double meanings in mating rituals and didn't catch the first part of what she said. His ears perked up at 'surveillance cameras', and his mind backtracked to 'just had installed', but could go no further.

"Wait, what?" he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**An update? **

**Cool beans! **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

"How could we have missed this?" Rossi asked. The team was reconvening over lunch; pizza Reid and Vasquez had picked up on the way back to the station.

"They only had the cameras installed two months ago, after a few vandalism incidents," Reid said as he reached for another slice of pizza. "They're concealed, and only a few of the employees even know about them, since they originally suspected someone who worked there was responsible."

He caught JJ's amused facial expression across the table.

"This is giving me pregnancy-craving flashbacks," JJ said, watching Reid as he ravenously downed his third piece of pizza.

"What? I'm training for a marathon, JJ," Reid said. "…Well, _kind of_, anyway…"

"Alright, alright" She said. "So we sent the surveillance tapes to Garcia, and we're waiting to hear back, but do they have someone who mans the cameras?"

"A security guard who's worked there for a few years," Reid said, looking sadly at his empty plate, then to the last slice of pizza in the box, which Morgan was also eyeing. "…by the name of Peter Davis. We've advised the Chief Wayne to bring him in for questioning, but he hasn't been located yet."

Reid made to take the pizza at the same time as Morgan, but Morgan reached it first. Reid's expression must have spoke volumes about the state of his stomach, because Morgan wordlessly tore the piece in half. Reid took his half gratefully.

"Great work, Reid," Hotch said. He seemed to mean it too. "We'll look at Davis and the other guys you've marked as having expressed exceptional interest in you, and compare them to the profile."

With the pizza gone, the team began picking up to return to their various tasks. Reid was just stuffing his case folder into his worn messenger bag when Wayne entered the room, tight-lipped and obviously livid. He threw the newest copy of the town's tabloid, _The Union_, on the table and turned to J.J.

"What exactly did you say at that press conference?" He demanded. "Because when I looked at the front cover of _The Union_ this morning, it sure as hell wasn't even close to what we discussed."

JJ snatched the paper off the table, but Reid had already read the headline. _**THE FAIRY MURDERER; KILLER TARGETS, ASSAULTS, AND BRUTALLY MURDERS LOCAL MEN (crime scene photos and grisly details, pg 2…).**_ He felt his stomach drop; this wasn't good.

"That's impossible, all the reporters agreed to work with us," She said, and gave voice to Reid's thoughts. "This isn't good."

"Damn right," Wayne said, crossing his arms across his chest.

* * *

"I can assure you, Chief, that my team has addressed this case with the utmost professionalism and discretion," Hotch said. He and the police chief stood in front of the crime board. Hotch had his hands on his hips, outwardly calm, but his down-turned mouth and flashing eyes belied the anger which bubbled beneath the surface. Wayne still had his arms crossed, and was glowering.

"Well there are details in that article that I know _my team_ hasn't released publically," Wayne said, uncrossing his arms and pointing an accusing finger at Hotch's chest like a fencer on the attack. "So, by something that, if I remember correctly, is called process of elimination—"

"Again, I can assure you that we haven't leaked anything," Hotch said, unfazed and motionless; refusing to participate in this match. "We should start working on damage control. Then we'll determine how the information reached the media. I suggest we go talk to this reporter, Roy Gibbon--"

"Wait, wait," Wayne said, turning from Hotch and beginning to pace. "Maybe this isn't so bad. We don't even know that our guy reads The Union, yet alone if he'll even care what they write about him. Shouldn't we concentrate on finding our leak? They even have the god-damn crime scene photos, for crying out loud!"

"Our profile suggests that the UNSUB will follow the media coverage extensively," Morgan said, stepping between the two men. "He wants to know what we know about him. He wants to see people's reactions to what he's done. It's extremely unlikely that he hasn't seen this."

"He's going to have an acute reaction to the article's tone," Prentiss said, looking at the grisly photos tacked to the board and gesturing to the coroner's report."Particularly the allegations of homosexuality and sexual assault. Even if these crimes are sexually motivated, which isn't unlikely, the UNSUB has explicitly denied any such feelings through his actions. There were no overt sexual acts committed, but the level of violence, principally to the victim's genitalia, indicates repressed sexual passion toward the victims."

"So we don't know whether or not he's gay, or just turned on by killing these guys, or whatever the hell he is, but he might not like being called gay? So what? This is all just theorizing."

"We won't know the exact motivation of the killings until we know more about the UNSUB," Reid said. "But we can be almost certain that this is going to result in some sort extreme action on his part. Its highly likely that we'll see his time-table speed up, as well as an escalation in the brutality of the attacks."

"Which is exactly why this should be our number-one priority," Hotch said.


End file.
